


mortal parentage

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Babysitting, Canon Era, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: A visit from Enjolras' mother, his twin baby sisters in tow, is not the end of the world.It makes for a very interesting week, though.
Relationships: Ambiguous or Implied Relationship(s), Enjolras & Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 72





	1. A Letter Throws P——— Enjolras into a State of Discomfiture

Enjolras eyes the letter on his desk with a revulsion he usually reserves only for the monarchy. The envelope was perfectly white, delivered through postal service and not gamin. That was the first clue. The second was the address, scribed in precise curling script, not the hurried scrawl of a revolutionary without time to waste. Something formal, then, and upper-class.

  
The third clue is his first name, emblazoned on the envelope for the entire world to see. Enjolras is not entirely sure that any of the Amis (and possibly Grantaire) even know what his first name is. They do not share any of his classes, after all, and he has taken great pains to keep it that way. He has tried to convince himself that it is not because his name also belongs to a member of the royal family, but that would be a lie.

  
Enjolras resolves to open the letter when he finds the time. Coincidentally, it is also the day where his professors demand his presence in several useless classes. He heads a meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC afterwards, and gets driven to distraction by the drinking and general air of revelry that surrounds the back room of the Musain. In the evening and well into the night, he examines a pamphlet by the light of his hair, and falls asleep at his desk, barely avoiding a head injury. He forgets about the letter's existence completely. He also wakes up with the envelope stuck to his lofty brow, and this reminds him. He peels it off, disgruntled, and slits it open before he can realize what he is doing.

  
The missive inside is direct and to the point. His mother is visiting for a week and bringing his twin sisters, having fired the nursemaid. The purpose of the visit is supposedly to find a new nursemaid, preferably one with less of a tendency to filch valuable jewelry and defacing windows. In practice, he knows that the visit is also to ascertain that there are no revolutionary ideas brewing in his head, and to find an excuse to cut off his allowance. There is no pretense of filial affection. They have not needed one for so long.  
He stares despairingly at the massive amount of government-prohibited literature piled around his room. He pays his landlady well to not clean his rooms, and to ask no questions. He makes up excuses not to invite visitors, and has more than once employed his fireplace in preserving his secrets. He only briefly considers doing so again. There is too much to burn, and everything is too precious, besides. He needs to find a hiding place.

  
First, he systematically goes through every paper in the household, finding some of the more innocuous monographs and scattering them around his desk in order to better play the part of the dutiful law student. He leaves the textbooks as well, plus some of the more well-known philosophies. It would be more suspicious to not have them, after all, and he's certain he'd need them to get through the week. Next, he burns what he can, and marks his place where he cannot, in scribbles and folded pages and bits of hair ribbon. Ink flies haphazardly, spotting his desk and his sleeves and his nose. Lastly, he tosses what is left into crates, and sets off on the journey to Combeferre's. Combeferre would be happy to house revolutionary literature, he thinks. He will simply have to buy some jam tarts on the way, to thank him.

  
It takes a good amount of time to haul the books, even with the deserted streets, and he ends up rather red-faced and out-of-breath once he's on Combeferre's doorstep. He's quietly pleased at this, since he gets a lot of ribbing for his appearance, and it serves as proof that he does sweat and toil as much as the rest of them. Of course, the universe doesn't let him stay that way, and he's almost back to immaculate once Combeferre opens the door.

  
"Enjolras." He sounds surprised, and also out-of-breath.

  
"Combeferre." He doesn't waste time asking about the unidentified stains clotted around Combeferre's sleeves, or the ominous noises echoing from inside the darkened apartment. "If it is not inconvenient—"

  
"—Have you been evicted?"

  
He bristles. "No. My mother is visiting."

  
"...That might be worse," Combeferre finally says, which Enjolras thinks is fair. He has met the person in question, after all.  
He shrugs, helplessly. "I require someplace to store this—" he gestures behind him, watching Combeferre's eyes widen— "for a few days, if it was not inconvenient, and if it did not endanger you."

  
"No sane landlord will have a look about my rooms," Combeferre says rather dryly. "But I have nowhere to put them. There was a dissection, and a final exam, and Prouvaire had insisted on bringing me a curious specimen to examine and hasn't been back to collect it—"

  
"—I quite understand," Enjolras says, stepping down the steps backwards in his haste. He hides the paper packet of jam tarts behind his back. "I did not mean to disturb you."

  
"But where will you go?"

  
Enjolras considers this for a moment. Courfeyrac is currently entertaining Marius, a Bonapartist. Joly and Bossuet have Musichetta. None of them would have spare room. Bringing the books to Jehan would most likely end in sharp words or likelier still, tears shed over the sorry state of his book pages and covers. Bahorel isn't even to be considered. Merely being seen with the man was already seditious enough to raise gossip. Enjolras doesn't even dare to think about disturbing Feuilly.

  
"Grantaire," he decides.

  
" _Grantaire_?" Enjolras feels rather than sees Combeferre's raised eyebrow.

  
"I know where his rooms are," he explains. He does not add that the last time he had been there, he was dragging the intoxicated man back after the Barrière du Maine incident, and had listened patiently to his loud declamations with regards to his capacity for revolution.

  
"But..." Combeferre chooses his next word carefully. "...Grantaire?"

  
"Grantaire." Enjolras is profoundly uneasy with the turn of the conversation. "I need to be off soon, if I wish to enlist his help."

  
Combeferre gives him an apologetic nod, retreating inside and shutting the door behind him. Enjolras turns back to the crates of books and rolls up his sleeves.


	2. Grantaire is Visited by the Angel of Revolutionary Tidings

Grantaire cannot believe his eyes.

Enjolras is headed down his street. Furthermore, he is heading away from the Musain, with a crate of books in his arms and a determined expression on his face. His hair has come undone, into a wild mass of curls that could rival the sun. His coat is shed, piled on the very top of the teetering papers. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His cravat is undone, hanging somewhere between the third and fourth buttons of his waistcoat. He looks perfectly at ease, even though a distinctly illegal pamphlet has rested gently on his hair.

Grantaire resists the urge to pass a hand over his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision. If it is a hallucination, there is no use. And it is much more pleasant than what he usually finds at the bottom of his bottle.

As if hearing his thoughts, Enjolras turns to face him. His expression does not change. For a moment, Grantaire's head whirls with scenarios. Enjolras has snapped, and chosen today to foist his ideals and his ideas on Grantaire. Enjolras has lost all of his money, and is peddling his possessions as a desperate last resort. Enjolras has mistaken him for Courfeyrac or Combeferre, or God forbid, Feuilly, and is anticipating a good long talk about the Rights of Man, or something similar—

"Good morning." Polite, reserved. Grantaire fights the urge to look behind him, to see if Enjolras is talking to someone else. No one. What's more, there is no one to observe them, no one around to fool. The sun is just past the rooftops, and the daylight pales as Enjolras smiles, tiredly, and inclines his head. "Grantaire."

Grantaire only half-listens, to both the explanation and the request. He is a bit startled that Enjolras actually has mortal parentage, and didn't spring fully-formed from the forehead of the Motherland herself, but he doesn't say it out loud, not exactly. He starts a speech on parents and their offspring as he helps Enjolras with the books, switches to the different types of fruit of the earth as they climb up the stairs, and finishes by talking about the symbolisms inherent in flight patterns of birds. In his defense, he was distracted, and the birds at his window seemed very interested in the goings-on inside the small room. It must be something about Enjolras's hair.

The collection of literature is enough to entice a small country to arms. Some of it even seems interesting. Grantaire shoves some of his bottles under his bed to make room, and reassures Enjolras that no one is about to come creeping into his rooms to determine if he is or is not a revolutionary. Enjolras takes a look around carefully and declares this to be true.

"This is not to pressure you into a republican school of thought," Enjolras says, as though fighting to be kind. Grantaire is offended, somewhat. He had thought them past that. "I only hoped to give you a somewhat easier task to accomplish, seeing as you found the last one rather difficult." Enjolras attempts a smile, again. It is ghastly beyond belief.

"You do not need to pretend."

His face unbends, somewhat, and he raises his chin. "I do not pretend." It is true. Grantaire has never known Enjolras to hide his feelings regarding anything: the Republic, the revolution, hot air balloons, Feuilly.

"You do not need to attempt," —Grantaire considers his next words, "—to be kind. It is wasted on me—"

"—never," Enjolras declares, and that is the end of it. He makes some attempt to arrange the books in something vaguely resembling order. Grantaire shoos him away, and threatens to launch into another speech, tapping his foot and waving his arms. Enjolras makes a face at him (he was not aware that they had progressed to that level of friendship, and the shock makes his head spin) and upon a moment's consideration, presses something into his hands.

"Recompense," he says, and something in his earnest tone makes Grantaire's head spin. He talks himself down from making a lovesick fool of himself, and comes up with an expression of gratitude that has only two references to other works of literature and one pun. He is rather proud of himself for that. He is even prouder for the way Enjolras snorts at the pun, even though it sounds exactly like a dog sneezing.

"Another time, then," Enjolras says, his voice bordering on fondness. It's dangerous to hear, and dangerous to think about. Grantaire does, anyway. He thinks about asking Enjolras to stay, for a few moments.

He doesn't. Instead, he makes a show of starting to clean up, for the sake of the books. Stains would probably be met with great disdain. He energetically throws the assorted detritus into a sack, along with other things to dispose. He does not get rid of himself, though, so it cannot be that thorough of a cleaning. And he already knows that he will not succeed. He will have tired when Enjolras leaves the room, and he will not have the strength of will to continue. He tries anyway.

Enjolras interrupts him. "I need to head back, and I have much to do. Unless you have any need of me?"

Grantaire lies, shakes his head. It's the most familiar of actions. Enjolras turns to go. His hand is on the door. Something snaps into place, at the sight.

"What happened?" It bursts out of Grantaire, like most words do. "After Richefeu?"

"You do not remember?"

"No." He had been too drunk, his mind too empty. He shakes his head, his entire body moving with it. He must look comical, but there is no way to prove sincerity when he has never been sincere, and he must make Enjolras believe him, even for this one instant—

"We spoke." Enjolras sounds infinitely patient, like he was explaining to a child. "Mostly you. You made arguments. Several of them. They were unsound, but well-meant, and I decided to forgive you."

Forgiveness seems a strange word, for the depth of its meaning. Grantaire says so, in less sentimental terms. He's good at that.

"It was yours, not mine." Enjolras takes his leave. Grantaire stares at the door long after it has stopped swinging.


	3. A Profusion of Enjolrai Crowd into One Apartment

Enjolras’s mother stands in the doorway, balancing two extremely fat, golden-haired children in her arms. Her frown is chiseled into her face, and she looks eminently unrumpled from the long carriage ride and the climb up the stairs. It is quite a balancing act to carry two wriggling children at the same time, and Enjolras barely has time to grudgingly admire his mother's tenacity when she unceremoniously thrusts his sisters into his arms.

"Mmpfh," he says, having gotten a mouthful of hair.

His mother peers into his rooms, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of disarray, something to criticize. Enjolras tries not to bristle, for the sake of the children who now seem to be fascinated with pulling his cravat tight enough to choke him. He had cleaned his rooms until every surface was clean enough to eat off, and every bit of messiness is carefully contrived to imply something. There is nothing that his mother might find fault in.

"Maman," he tries again, arranging his face to be respectful. "It is good to see you."

She doesn't acknowledge him, stepping inside on her own. He is used to that. She looks around, pacing until she is satisfied. Enjolras paints her a completely different picture of his life. The papers on the desk are his notes, from his professors. He has had lower grades than usual this semester, but nothing that he cannot remedy with studying. The tallow stains at his desk are from school, and certainly not from any late nights spent deciphering illegal literature.

His mother comments on the lack of anything resembling a personal life. She has sharp eyes, too used to picking out flaws. At the very least, her words aren't sugar-coated, the way they are in front of company. Enjolras says something about never having the time, and expresses his disinterest in marrying, as placidly as he can.

"You will learn to be interested," his mother says, sniffing, and he methodically tamps down his fears until all that is left is one shaky exhale of sound. "You do not need to whine."

Enjolras shakes his head, chewing the inside of his cheek. He has learned, from long experience, that there is no use refusing in his household. His mother seamlessly shifts from critiquing him to critiquing his father, and his recent accomplishments. He holds only the smallest bit of affection for his father, a pale distracted man whose hands shook from drink when he wasn't holding a book, but he infinitely prefers that to his mother's cold gaze, and the cut of her tongue.

"He has done nothing, except sit in the library and hole up with the books. Useless. It is his fault, why you are like this."

Enjolras doesn't speak. He has fonder memories of the library, where he first learned about the history of the nation, and the injustices committed outside the walls of their manor. He secretly thinks his father had a streak of revolution in his blood as well, to buy those books, put them where a child could reach.

"I will be out until eight this evening. See to it that my room is prepared." She sweeps out and away, leaving Enjolras staring at the hallway. He is used to that too. His mother had always been like that since he was a child, spirited away by social gatherings until she was barely a presence in the household. He hadn't minded. It was better than her being at home.

He turns back to his sisters, Katerina and Kassandra (having been called such despite the protests of his father, who had read classic literature). Katerina had freckles sprinkled over her cheeks and forehead, while Kassandra had a scar on her arm from an accident involving a candlestick. Katerina was making a concerted effort to shove herself away from Enjolras, while Kassandra had determined to wrestle with his collar. He disengages both of them.

"You mustn't do that," he says. He has never believed in talking down to children. "You mustn't contrive to kill your relatives."

Kassandra looks offended at the statement and Katerina only blinks. Enjolras thinks of his grandfather, and revises his statement.

"Well, perhaps you may contrive to kill a few of your relatives, but I am not one of them," he allows, carrying them into the bedroom. "Are you tired? Or wet, or hungry?"

A gurgle. Then two. Enjolras decides that this means they are content, and acts accordingly. He sets them down on the bed, checks their mouths to see if they had inadvertently ingested something, and proceeds to talk to them. They haven't reached the age of complete sentences yet, but he is determined. They all doze off after a few minutes, although Enjolras wakes up at the first faint stir of movement.

He watches them sleep for a while. He hasn't seen them for almost ten months, since they were just born and he had gone to visit against his will. His mother had sniffed, and made a comment about them not bearing an inkling of resemblance to her. Enjolras had honestly not been able to see much resemblance to anything, except perhaps wrinkled raisins with red skin instead of brown. He had not said so, of course, only contrived to spend as little time as possible with his mother.

He wonders whether or not the children were well-cared for. He does not remember being cared for at all, only being fed and clothed, from time to time. Being studied, like a specimen under glass. Pronounced satisfactory. Tutored, by disinterested men. He remembers escaping into books, playing at swords and critiquing his own form. Being sent off to Paris, upon having too many ideas and thoughts of his own. It will be a long time before they can do any of those things.

He gets up, at last, and prepares lunch, careful to check inside the bedroom every two minutes. Many things can happen in two minutes, like an impromptu fistfight, or getting tangled in the curtains. Enjolras speaks from experience.

No further incidents happen until after the meal, where Kassandra contrives to chew on some papers, and Katerina to aid and abet her. Enjolras rescues a slightly mangled treatise from being completely mangled, and sits first with Kassandra on his knees, looking into her eyes.

"That was a very foolish thing to do," he says solemnly.

She stares at him, giggling.

"Ink is not good to eat. Paper is not either. You must understand this."

Silence. Kassandra chews on her fist.

"Do you understand?"

Further silence. Enjolras pronounces the lecture satisfactory and turns to Katerina.

"You, on the other hand, have also done something wrong."


	4. The Enjolras Siblings Collectively Contrive to Ruin Courfeyrac's Cravat

Enjolras is taking a while to answer his door. Courfeyrac decides to add it to his list of flaws. He has a long list, born of a long friendship and an even longer memory. It is a mark of affection, to be able to know them and to rile him up quite easily. Courfeyrac lists in his head, to pass the time.

Enjolras was somewhat short-sighted, failing to take into account smaller details. He had an ill-developed taste for the most terrible sort of punnery, for which they blamed Bossuet. He had a tendency towards soaring speeches that could charm the masses and sway the populace, when he was not busy being annoyingly silent. He rejected amusement and vice, in all aspects, but he had the best of reasons and none of their arguments to logic could break him of the habit. He seemed all metaphor, with his glowing hair and lofty brow and his knack of looking exactly like the statues in museums. At the very least, Enjolras had developed a semblance of fashion sense two years ago, a horridly sober one, without the slightest hint of color or pattern. Courfeyrac admits that anything was better than when they first met, where he dressed in what must have been his great-grandfather's wardrobe, as moth-eaten and tattered as his great-grandfather might have been.

The door opens, with less creaking than Courfeyrac remembers. He stares and gapes at the sight inside.

Enjolras carries two extremely blond babies, asleep and nestled in his arms. Courfeyrac rushes inside and coos quietly over them for a few minutes, marveling over their cheeks and noses before turning his attention to Enjolras.

"They are adorable," he pronounces, beaming from ear to ear.

Enjolras nods and smiles, doting.

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. He had practiced it in a mirror just this morning, and is delighted to find he can do it. "Where have you been hiding their mother, Enjolras?"

"I haven't been hiding her; she's staying right here—"

Courfeyrac gasps, loud enough to wake the babies. "Enjolras, you rake—"

"—No! They are my siblings! Not my children." He looks traumatized. "Katerina." He points to one stirring baby. "And Kassandra." He points to the other baby. They blink as they wake, their eyes every bit as blue as Enjolras's. "Say hello to Courfeyrac."

Katerina, or maybe Kassandra stares between them for a long time before patting Courfeyrac's cheek. He is utterly charmed.

"Uncle Courfeyrac," he corrects, ignoring Enjolras's protests. "Now, let me hold them."

Enjolras considers this for a moment. "Katerina is less likely to attempt to punch you," he decides, passing her to Courfeyrac. She immediately starts wailing.

"Oh no, Enjolras, you must rescue me—" he laments. Enjolras doesn't notice him.

"No, Kassandra, we do not chew our brothers' waistcoat buttons,—" He disengages her. "Neither of your brothers can afford to lose them, and you might choke. No, I said."

"Brothers?" Courfeyrac says, attempting to make conversation over the din of the crying child. "I thought you were an only son."

"We thought so too, until Louis informed me two years ago that I was quite mistaken," Enjolras says, dryly. "My mother had sent him away to some convent, saying that my constant speeches on the monarchy had turned him 'unladylike.' As if it were possible for him to be anything else."

Courfeyrac remembers. There had been a time where he had insisted on accompanying Enjolras on his yearly journey home, where he had encountered a very small child the family had called a daughter, expressing very loud and vocal disappointment in not having being breeched, and Enjolras glaring at his parents all the while. Later on, that evening, the child had gone up to Enjolras's bedroom, dressed in his old clothes, and paraded around the parlor, screaming defiance while doing so, and scandalizing all adults present. It was a fond memory.

"You keep in touch?"

"My parents gave me the address of the convent. We write, often, and I have been sending him packages, so he will not feel wholly abandoned by the family. I promised to house him should he find himself in the city."

Katerina is still crying. Courfeyrac attempts to distract her, with glittering cloth, a sweetmeat in the shape of a frog, and finally, a lock of Enjolrasian hair.

"What are you doing?" Enjolras asks, not at all amused. Courfeyrac lets go of his hair.

It takes a decidedly negative turn from then on. Courfeyrac wails dramatically along with the baby, until Enjolras lifts her out of his arms and fusses over her.

"Katerina, I am surprised at you. You have induced our guest to tears. It is impolite," he says amusedly, passing Courfeyrac a handkerchief. Katerina looks somewhat concerned, despite her entire face resembling a squashed tomato.

"It is nothing," Courfeyrac says, rubbing his ear. "I wasn't aware babies could be quite so loud."

"You were holding her the wrong way," Enjolras comments. "And you did wake her up."

"Take that back. I am a delight to all, even—even squalling children!"

"If you fare better with Kassandra, I will believe you." And he passes her to Courfeyrac.

There are a few moments of blessed silence. No one is crying. Everything is peaceful until—

"Enjolras, she is chewing my cravat."

"Yes." Enjolras selects one of the remaining books on his shelves and opens it. He looks smug. Courfeyrac has never seen that expression before. He fears for his life.

"Enjolras, it is slimy and wet."

"Yes." He flips a page.

"It grows wetter every second. You must stop her."

He doesn't glance up. "Do stop tormenting my friend, Kassandra."

A beat.

"Enjolras, she is not stopping," Courfeyrac agonizes.

"I apologize. I will lend you a cravat, if you are adamant that you cannot leave with a spoiled one."

He recoils from the idea, cannot even touch it in his mind. "Your cravats are all crumpled."

"Indeed." He does not look the least bit offended. What are you supposed to do, when a man is not offended on the state of his crumpled cravat?

"Enjolras." Courfeyrac swallows. "Take her away."

"I cannot believe you," Enjolras says when he does so. Courfeyrac cannot protest. He was just happy no damage was done to his waistcoat.


	5. An Unfortunate Accident Drives Musichetta to Become a Temporary Nursemaid

It is undeniably pleasant to take walks with Bossuet, Musichetta thinks privately. The day is cool and the weather is nice, and everything was just so. It is simply a trick of luck that Bossuet trips and sprains his ankle, ripping another hole in his trousers and losing his hat in the process.

“I’m all right,” Bossuet says, with a smile, before Musichetta can even begin to help him up. “Nothing to worry about. I can do this myself.”

Musichetta watches him flail and struggle to his feet. If he was so insistent on being all right, he shouldn’t be limping as he is right now. She rushes to support him before he can fall and sprain his other ankle.

“There’s no way you can make it home in that condition,” she says, calm despite herself. She deals with much larger crises at work, and she is used to medical emergencies, courtesy of Joly. “Don’t you pretend otherwise. We need to find somewhere for you to rest.”

Bossuet glances at the street, at the buildings surrounding them. “We’re near Enjolras’ place,” he volunteers. “We could stay there until we can send for Joly. And a cane.” Musichetta agrees, and together, they manage to get up the modest steps to Enjolras’ front door.

Their first few knocks get no response, and Bossuet hesitates. “Maybe we shouldn’t disturb the man.”

Musichetta shakes her head. “There is nowhere else to drag you. Either he is actually the friend you say he is, and he won’t mind if we break into his apartment, or he is not, and we break into his apartment nevertheless.” She ignores Bossuet’s swooning, and knocks again on the door. It swings open this time.

“Can I help you?” Enjolras says. He is precisely as beautiful as all of Joly and Bossuet’s descriptions made him out to be, Musichetta thinks. What they failed to mention were the two similarly blonde infants that he was currently carrying. They have large blue eyes, red cheeks, and large foreheads, all traits which Enjolras has, but in a more terrifying capacity.

“Enjolras!” Bossuet exclaims. “Or Enjolrai! Enjolrae? Enjolrati?” He waves a finger at the babies, who gurgle at him and make attempts to bite. Musichetta quickly pulls his hand away before he injures himself. 

Enjolras stifles a burst of laughter. “I presume you came here for a reason other than to discuss the plural of my name.”

“Yes. I fortuitously sprained my ankle on a stray cobblestone and would like to request succor from the elements and the cruelties of Fate.” He attempts a bow. “Also, I would like to contact Joly. This is the lovely Musichetta. She plays the part of the gallant and adored, although somewhat frustrated, rescuer.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Enjolras says. “Of course, you are welcome here. Make yourselves comfortable.” He steps aside so Bossuet could limp his way into the apartment. He nods a head at an armchair, which Bossuet collapses into gracelessly, and sets about sending a gamin for Joly.

Musichetta sits on the arm next to Bossuet, glancing at the bookshelves in the house. They were filled with the dull, placid stuff that students and Royalists often ended up collecting, like the dust in their empty heads. She resolves to be somewhat cold to Enjolras, now that she knows the contents of the man’s bookshelves. No good ever came from the sort of men who couldn’t be bothered to pick up an interesting book.

“My mother is visiting,” Enjolras says at the look on her face. “I assure you that I do not read any of it.”

“That’s all right then,” she says, letting some warmth back into her tone. “I was wondering.”

Enjolras nods and bounces the babies in his arms. They coo and gurgle and throw up, just a little. Musichetta moves to help him clean up. This, at least, is familiar territory. She has raised plenty of her siblings to know how to treat them.

“This is Katerina and this is Kassandra,” Enjolras says, pointing to one baby and then the other. “After the empress and the prophetess.”

Musichetta frowns. “The prophetess who was cursed?”

“Yes, despite our objections. Please hand me a washcloth.”

Just as the two of them are finishing cleaning up the babies, the door swings open.

“Philippe, what is the meaning of this? Who is this man reclining on your armchair, and who is that?”

“And that is my mother,” Enjolras mutters under his breath before turning to the woman in the doorway. She’s dressed in the latest evening gown fashion, with large sleeves and an elaborately decorated skirt.

“You can call me Marguerite,” Musichetta says, thinking fast. She borrows a name from one of the Romantic stories that she had read lately. “This is Jean, my husband, and I was told that you were looking for a nursemaid for these two lovely children.” To prove her point, she picks the babies up and starts to dandle them. They start to cry, but Musichetta keeps smiling.

“Ah,” says Enjolras’ mother, her voice loud enough to carry over the sounds of squalling infants. “And what is your husband doing on Philippe’s furniture?”

“I fractured my ankle on a rogue cobblestone,” Bossuet says. “ _Philippe_ was kind enough to let me stay until the doctor came.” Enjolras shot an abyssal glare at him.

“Oh. Well, he always had a tendency for compassion. Picking up strays, and similar habits.” She waves a hand in the air. “Well, continue with your work. I will be out tonight, Philippe. Do not let the children get the better of you. And pay the girl.”

Enjolras nods, stiffly. As soon as his mother is out of the room, he sinks, boneless, into a chair. “I apologize about our mother,” he says to the room at large, gesturing for Musichetta to hand him the children. “No, we do not chew the upholstery.” He takes a tassel out of one of their mouths.

“It’s fine,” Musichetta says. “You should know that I actually have no intention of being a nursemaid.”

“No, I understand,” Enjolras says.

“You would make a good nursemaid,” Bossuet says, loyally.

“I would make a terrible nursemaid,” Musichetta says.

“You would make a perfectly horrific nursemaid,” he revises. “Absolutely horrendous. The worst.”

“That’s better.” She brushes imaginary dirt off her dress. “How’s your foot?”

“Still regrettably sprained,” Bossuet says cheerfully. “The pain has been steadily getting worse for the past few minutes. Nothing our dear Joly wouldn’t be able to fix.”

“That does sound like a problem.”

Much later, when Joly had arrived to take them both home, she copies the details of the day dutifully into her journal of interesting experiences. She includes every detail of Enjolras’ appearance, from the glowing hair on his head to the startlingly white teeth. She doesn’t know why, but she feels compelled to, as if by a voice in her ear.


	6. Grantaire Purchases a Piece of Revolutionary Literature and Ends Up Rocking an Enjolras to Sleep

Grantaire hadn’t meant to do it. Of course, he had stumbled home drunk. It was an occurrence that happened frequently, only to be rivalled by the number of times he had been drunk and had not managed to stumble home. He did not throw up, which was a miracle in its own right, but he was clumsy enough to knock over a glass of water which he cleaned his brushes with. But that was an accident. In his heart, he had not spilled the paint water. That was what counted.

Unfortunately, outside the realms of his heart, he had spilled water all over one of the books Enjolras had asked him to keep. It was a special edition, which meant, most likely, that someone had given it to him. Enjolras never went out of his way to buy special editions of books. He had no appreciation for them.

So, naturally, he ends up looking for a replacement. He doesn’t do it because of the vision of a sad, disappointed Enjolras his brain conjures up. He’s not haunted by that at all, or so he tells himself as he rifles through the illicit piles of literature at the local printer’s shop. The book is not available, even after he bribes the printer with all the money in his pockets. Granted, there was not a lot of money in his pockets, and the printer was not impressed.

He ends up at Jehan’s rooms, both to browse his bookshelves and to ask for help. He brings the ragged book, and a passable sketch of the cover as he remembers it. Jehan tuts, laments the loss of the book, and devises complicated funeral rituals for it involving incense and burials. Grantaire doesn’t mind. Much.

“—And then, we could chant this prayer to Apollo over the book’s ashes,” Jehan finishes with a flourish of his hand. “It’s a perfect plan.”

“It’s still quite wet,” Grantaire says, lifting the book up by a corner of the cover and pressing a finger into the water-logged pages. It squelches.

“It’s an almost-perfect plan,” Jehan concedes.

“Do you have any idea where it’s from?”

“I have some contacts.” He steeples his hands and widens his eyes. It’s not a particularly comforting look. “You were right in coming to me.” He pats Grantaire on the back, and discreetly wipes his hand over one of the couch cushions before taking Grantaire’s hand and patting that instead. “Consider the matter taken care of.”

And that is how he ends up with an edition that is “even more special than that old special edition,” in the words of the man who delivered the book to him. He also ended up buying a couple more “even more special editions” off the man, and even some pigment. He has no idea what he is going to do with the stuff. He doesn’t even paint. Not anymore.

Armed with the books and a clean waistcoat, he sets off on his quest to saunter his way to Enjolras’ rooms. He drops into one of the good restaurants on the way, stopping for a bite and a drink. He then drops into an acquaintance’s house and makes a needless embarrassment of himself. And somewhere along the line he ends up in a shouting match with another acquaintance.

He does not get to Enjolras’ flat that day.

He sets out again the next day. He is down to his only clean waistcoat, at least until the laundress gives the rest back to him. He’s only somewhat self-conscious of the fact that his hair looks like it was dragged through the mud, dunked in oil, and fried to oblivion. In his defense, he looked for a comb in his rooms, and no comb came forth. It was decreed by fate that he should arrive at Enjolras’ door with his hair uncombed.

He knocks on the door once. Then twice.

“Just a minute!” He hears the sounds of something crashing to the floor, and the unmistakable sounds of babies wailing.

Enjolras wrenches open the door. His hair looks like a nest (a glorious beautiful nest, of course) and he has bags under his eyes, and there’s an unnerving intensity in his smile. He’s also carrying two wailing blonde babies that don’t seem to pause for breath.

“Grantaire,” he says, calmly. “Hello.”

“You need help with that?” Grantaire gestures at the babies with an authority he doesn’t feel.

“This is Katerina and this is Kassandra. They do not like strangers. Alas,” Enjolras says. “Can I help you?”

Grantaire proceeds to explain about the book, about the escapades required to get this book from the publisher and printer to where it currently sits in his hands. He brandishes his arms and leaves out the fact that his role in the matter was actually just paying for the thing. All the while, the babies wail and scream and make every attempt to escape Enjolras’ arms, a decision which Grantaire does not understand.

“And that is why I darken your doorstep today,” Grantaire finishes. Enjolras nods, and looks at the babies in his arms helplessly.

“Thank you. I would bring it into the room myself, but, well,” he looks down at the babies.

“Look, let me help,” Grantaire says, carefully taking what he thinks is Katerina from Enjolras and giving him the book in return. He rocks her back and forth, murmuring nonsense about responsibility and duty. By degrees, she quiets down, shuts her eyes, and falls asleep. Enjolras just stares at him, wide-eyed.

Grantaire attempts to give Katerina back to Enjolras. The moment she leaves his arms, she’s immediately awake and wailing. Enjolras hastily puts her back, and passes him Kassandra as well, with the same results.

“Oh. Maybe they like me?” Grantaire says.

Enjolras hesitates, then reaches out to take one of the babies. Crying fills the air. He pulls his hand back, and the crying stops.

“They like you,” Enjolras declares. “You need to stay.”

“ _What_?”

“It’s only for a few hours, just until my mother comes back and leaves Paris with them.” Enjolras fixes him with his blue, blue eyes. “Please, Grantaire. A few hours of your time.”

Grantaire finally nods and steps over the threshold of Enjolras’ rooms. They’re in what could be charitably described as a state of total and utter chaos.

“And how do you want to explain my presence in your rooms to your mother?” Grantaire says, attempting to sound casual and missing the mark completely.

“I would say that you are a radical Republican attempting to seduce me to your political views,” Enjolras says airily, pointedly looking down at Grantaire’s waistcoat. It was his only clean one, and Grantaire only now notices the giant pointed lapels and the offensively red color of the fabric. His Robespierre waistcoat. “I trust you can play the part.”


End file.
